


Wardlow Whoopie

by olderbynow



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Borderline crackfic, F/M, do not take this seriously i am begging you, humour...?, irrefutable proof that i should not write smutty fic, pff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-19 22:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8227007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olderbynow/pseuds/olderbynow
Summary: Who even knows... It's Phrack, it's borderline crack, it's not meant to make any sense.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many people to blame for this fic existing and being posted, but I have been informed (and have had to admit after having the receipts handed to me) that it was actually my idea to write this. I slightly regret that fact, and if you read on, you probably will as well. Just don't say I didn't warn you! (Honestly, though, I don't really regret it, because writing this was too much fun for regrets.)

It’s dark outside. Way dark. The kind of dark that helps criminals escape, because torches weren’t exactly amazing in 1929. Sucks to be on a period show. Jack is totally annoyed that he is, as well, when he turns a corner and the street is empty and dead quiet. Not dead body quiet, this story isn’t that dramatic, just, there’s no one there and no cars, so there’s no noise. It’s very, very quiet, is the point.

Not even Miss Fisher is there, which maybe surprises him a little. Shouldn’t she have turned up and trapped the guy with a garter or something? Waved a finger to cause some sort of strange wind pattern to knock him over? Jack sighs and does that eye-roll thing.

“Did he get away?” Collins asks from behind him, finally caught up. He’s out of breath and his hair’s all messy and Jack briefly considers recommending his favourite brand of pomade. But instead he takes a moment to marvel at the constable’s talent for asking questions with totally obvious answers. Like whether or not this guy got away. Jeez.

“Yes, Collins.” Jack should probably say something more. Make some comments about chasing suspects, turn this into a teaching moment, but fuck it if he can be bothered. There’s a whiskey tumbler with his name on it (not literally, obviously, that’d be weird) waiting for him in Miss Fisher’s parlour.

“Shame Miss Fisher wasn’t here to help,” Collins goes on, showing off that other talent of his: saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

“Shame you don’t run faster,” Jack wants to say, but instead he makes a slight grimace. ‘It’s a hard life but we’ll just have to muddle through’, is what it’s meant to imply, but sarcastically. He does it a lot, Collins should get it by now. “We are police officers, Collins. We don’t need the help of civilians to chase down criminals,” he says out loud, pretty damn proud of his restraint. That’s worth a second glass of whiskey, he’s pretty sure. If he hangs around long enough Miss Fisher’ll probably get tipsy and knock up the flirting a notch, which is fun for everyone. And he can pretend he’s drunk as well and… Yeah, fun for everyone.

Collins opens his mouth to say something but then closes it again a few times, and Jack has a sudden craving for fish. Shame Concetta forced his hand by practically telling him to propose so he lost his table at Strano’s. He’s pretty sure Miss Fisher was jealous when she found out about Concetta, though, which was fun. And almost worth having to cook his own meals.

Perhaps there’ll be a dinner at Wardlow in his near future? He could make a comment about eating fish when he was a kid, maybe, suck in his cheeks a little and do that hungry face.

“Yes, Sir,” the constable manages at last, although Jack has all but forgotten what he’s agreeing with. Oh, right. We’re police officers, we can do police things. Yup. Totally.

Jack’s pretty sure Collins went through at least three other answers before that one, and all of them probably involved things they had needed Miss Fisher for in the past.

Annoyingly, the list of things they’ve needed her for is pretty damn long. But she does help catch bad guys, and she looks pretty good doing it, so as long as she doesn’t break too many laws in one day he doesn’t see any reason not to keep her around.

Also, he fancies her like mad. There’s that as well. (As reasons to hand over police evidence to her go, that’s a pretty flimsy one, so Jack tries to focus on how she’s useful for his crime solving rate.)

The fact that they need her to help solve crimes is mostly annoying because she can get kind of smug about it, which Jack is not a fan of. Well, he sort of is, because her smug face is preeeeetty damn cute, but still. He’s a sensible, serious, in-control-of-himself-at-all-times-except-when-he’s-not kinda guy, so he makes an effort most days to spend at least five minutes thinking about how annoying she can be. It’s part of his morning routine.

He finds it’s a great way to stop himself from snogging her senseless when she waltzes into his office dressed like she wants him to undress her ‘right here, right now’. (Which could just be his dick talking, he’s not really sure, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it was her.)

“Let’s head back to the station,” he suggests, after what’s probably a weirdly long pause as he thinks about Phryne taking her dress off in his office and Collins thinks about… Well, cake, probably. “We’ll get our chance with this guy another time. We know where he lives now.”

“Yes, Sir,” Collins replies eagerly, because he knows ‘back to the station’ means ‘this shift is over, I’m bored with this crap’.

Back at City South there’s a bit of an awkward moment when they both get ready to leave at the same time and it’s totally clear they’re both going to the same place. Yikes. Jack wonders why this never occurred to him before. They work together and they’re seeing women who live together, who they also kind of, sort of work with, in an unofficial ‘for God’s sake, don’t tell Russell Street about this’ capacity. (Well, Collins is engaged, Jack’s working his way up to actual, consensual lip contact. Kids these days, always in such a hurry to get places. Fuck, Jack wishes he was getting places.) Anyway, possibly there’s an issue with their work-life balance, is the point. Boundaries are probably something they should be looking into, is a related point.

The fact that Jack’s a chickenshit is not the point. At all. Just so you know.

They walk out of the station together and Jack wonders if he should offer Collins a lift to St. Kilda, but the constable saves him from a potentially awkward moment by smiling and saying, “I’m off to see Dottie, I promised her I’d come by after my shift. We’ve started planning the wedding. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sir.” Totally pretending they won’t be separated only by a couple of walls half an hour from now. Maybe they do have boundaries, just not the traditional kind?

The kid is practically babbling, but Jack’s too grateful to do anything other than smile and nod goodbye. There’s a hint of sadness in the smile, it’s not quite the goofy one he sometimes has spread all over his face when Phryne’s around, but he’s having a moment here, being all deep and thinking about his own failed marriage and how Miss Fisher’s not the marrying kind and young love and Christ, why hasn’t he fucked her already, what is wrong with him, is he actually crazy?

So, it’s the kind of look that’s deep, with a hint of self-loathing, but also some heart-eye thrown in there for good measure as he thinks about Phryne’s smile for a bit. He’s in love and not sure what to do about it, is basically the point of this. Then he gets in his car and drives at exactly the speed limit to Wardlow, because he is a man of the law, and even horny men of the law must obey the law. Also, road safety is a real issue. It’s 1929, people are still driving around completely pissed and air bags haven’t even been invented yet, someone has to be sensible.

Mostly Jack’s the sensible type, but then Mr. Butler (What even? How is that his name?) leads him to the parlour and lets Miss Fisher know that “Inspector Robinson is here to see you, Miss,” - because that’s not obvious enough what with him standing right there and everything - and she looks up and she seems so damn pleased to see him his heart does that thing that feels like it skips a beat, but really it’s just adrenaline or endorphins or something, which is lucky, because he wasn’t actually invited tonight, and she could just as easily have been out with some hot cricketer or something. Or in, Jack. They could’ve stayed in.

Jack eyes the whiskey on the table behind her, suddenly feeling very thirsty.

She smiles, all welcoming and friendly and full of heart-eyes that Jack sees but he doesn’t, because we need to drag this out just a little longer, they haven’t even spoken yet. But, yeah, he totally knows that she fancies him, too, he just doesn’t know how much or how long it’ll last, and those are important issues when you’re Jack Robinson.

Sometimes he really wishes he did casual sex, but he’d probably screw it up, get too attached and hang around her house at all times of the day and night, hoping he’d get to do it again.

He’d have to arrest himself. Or, heaven forbid, Collins would have to do it.

That’s probably more likely. Mild stalking is more of a constable-level offense, you don’t need the big detective inspector guns for that.

Anyway, there are heart-eyes on both ends as per usual, and she pours him a whiskey and he digs around his brain for something to say that isn’t “Have you ever had sex on that chair over there, and if not, do you want to give it a try?”

“According to my constable, apparently we are not even able to catch petty criminals without you any longer,” he says.

“Oh, Jack,” she says, amused and super pleased by the complement. (Yasss, thinks Jack. Also, he’s very into the way she says his name, all teasing and friendly and flirty. Mostly flirty, let’s be real, and who wouldn’t be into that?) “I’ve been telling you that for months now. But I’m very glad Hugh’s finally catching on, at least.”

“I think Collins has been ‘caught on’ since our very first investigation,” he says dryly.

She smiles and they both spend a moment thinking back, and oh, how time flies. “‘Our’ first investigation?” she teases him.

He does that side-nod, shrugging thing. “You were slightly helpful,” he admits. She also came out of that bath house wearing nothing but a towel, and he feels like he should’ve probably taken a closer look when he had the chance, but he wasn’t really that interested back then. It’s pretty high up on the list of things he regrets. “Until you caused an explosion.”

“Well, you know me, Jack,” she says lightly, as if that explains everything.

“Yes, Miss Fisher. Yes, I do.” It kinda does, if he’s honest. It’d be weird if she hadn’t caused some sort of mayhem.

“So what did you need me for today? If I’d known there was an important investigation going on, I wouldn’t have spent the day with Aunt Prudence.”

“Oh, it was nothing too pressing,” he says dismissively. “We solved the case already, now it’s just a question of catching the guy.”

“And you need someone who can maneuver a car at speed?” She is 100% definitely mocking him and he knows it. He’d be offended but she’s doing that thing with her eyes and her mouth and her whole face, basically, and she’s leaning forward a little, giving him a pretty good view of…

He clears his throat and looks down at the whiskey in his glass. Sometimes being a man of honour really fucking sucks.

Except he did tell her once that he doesn’t _always_ do the right thing. That was the time he almost thought he was going to get lucky (spent ages agonising about it out in his car before he went and knocked on her door and everything) and then Prudence Stanley cockblocked him and not screaming at her to fuck the fuck off is quite possibly his greatest achievement in life.

He’s pretty sure he even smiled at her, but the truth is, he was mainly thinking about what would’ve been happening right then if she hadn’t shown up, so he’s not completely sure. He has a sudden terrifying thought. “She’s not here, is she?”

Miss Fisher frowns in confusion, obviously still looking flawless and adorable. “Who? I thought you said the criminal was a man?”

He shakes his head to clear the fog. “I meant Mrs. Stanley,” he explains, feeling about seven kinds of stupid. Which is a lot for Jack, who’s usually really clever.

“Oh. No.” She smiles, still slightly confused-looking, but also maybe just a little bit concerned now. Possibly that’s another thing Jack’s into, and he’s pretty sure that’s a bad thing. “Are you alright, Jack?”

“Yes, of course,” he says, much too quickly. Way to sound convincing, Inspector Robinson. He finishes his whiskey, just for something to do that isn’t saying words out loud. 

She leans closer to pour him another drink. Closer than she needs to, but Jack’s not in a mood to question it tonight. (He’s rarely in a mood to do that, but sometimes he does it, anyway.) He stares right into her eyes the whole time, because honestly, if he looks anywhere else it’ll be down the front of her dress, there’s no way he’d be able to help himself. And it’s not as if looking her in the eye is a bad thing, except is does make him feel slightly woozy. (That could just be the alcohol, but it sometimes happens when he hasn’t been drinking, so probably not.)

She smiles and puts down the decanter but doesn’t go back to her seat.

He smiles back, hitting full dork speed in 0.3 seconds.

And then they’re kissing and his tongue is actually in her mouth and it’s just like that time in Café Réplique (except she’s a lot more into it, what with there not being an abusive ex-boyfriend around or anything like that. So that’s good.) and he’s pretty sure he made it happen and he really wishes he remembered how - he’d like to be able to do that again sometime, because hot damn. 

He’s still trying to remember what exactly he did when she pushes him back in his seat and basically just full-on straddles him right there in her parlour. Mr. Butler’s… somewhere (he lives there, after all, doesn’t he?) and Miss Williams and Collins are out in the kitchen discussing flower arrangements or whatever, and someone could walk in at any moment, and… Jack does not give a shit, because Phryne Fisher is grinding herself against him in a way that doesn’t really leave room to care about a whole lot of things beyond how buttons are undone.

(Tearing them would be rude, wouldn’t it? Also, Miss Williams would probably have to sew them back on, so it wouldn’t really be fair to her.)

“Jack,” she actually fucking moans right into his mouth and he very nearly comes right then and there, because she’s pressed against him in a way he’s pretty sure is extremely deliberate (and also extremely comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time) and moaning and it has been a while, okay? “Either we go upstairs, right now, or I take you right here on this chair.”

He pulls her closer, taking a moment to thank science for the fact that friction exists, and then he kisses her again, probably more enthusiasm than technique at this point, which he should probably work on. “Wrong chair,” he tells her.

“What?” She looks confused for about half a second but then the implications of what he just said hit her and she laughs. “Jack Robinson, you are full of surprises.”

“Well, you know me, Miss Fisher,” he says as he gets to his feet, lifting her up with him. All that time cycling around Melbourne is finally being put to good use, he thinks, because he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have managed that smooth move quite so smoothly without these thighs. Her legs wrap themselves around him easily as he stands and Christ on a bicycle, that’s… Upstairs. Now. 

She wraps her arms more tightly around his neck as he carries her across the room and up the stairs. “I’m beginning to think I don’t,” she whispers in his ear, and he damn near falls down the stairs breaking both their necks when she sucks his earlobe into her mouth.

Which would be both a brilliant and a terrible way to die, and if it’s going to happen that way Jack would really fucking prefer it to not happen until tomorrow, so he puts all his focus into the balancing and walking bit of what they’re doing and gets them the rest of the way to her boudoir.

Once they get inside she makes him turn 90 degrees, practically steering him like he’s a horse, a bit of pull here, a nudge there, and then she pushes the door closed with her foot before drawing back and looking him in the eye.

It’s totally A Moment, all sorts of things being said without being said, about right now and the future, and Jack’s beginning to feel dizzy again, and although he’s pretty strong and she’s pretty skinny she’s also getting pretty heavy, so he not-so-subtly eyes the bed over his shoulder, officially ending their deep and meaningful moment in favour of moving this thing along.

She grins, and for a second he thinks it’s because she can tell he’s struggling to stay upright, and he’s considering telling her that if she didn’t eat his breakfast every other damn day maybe he wouldn’t be having this problem right now, but then he realises it’s actually meant to be encouraging, so he takes another stab at that ‘kissing her’ business he managed so well downstairs.

Yup, still got it. 

The part of his brain that’s obsessed with staying in control of everything is fighting a battle it’s totally going to lose, but it’s refusing to give up, so as he steers them towards the bed Jack finds himself worrying about things like just how far away Miss Williams’ bedroom is and how much noise carries in this house, and whether or not he can get away with wearing these exact clothes to work again tomorrow or if anyone will notice if he doesn’t change his tie?

And then she’s spread out on the bed, basically under him. He is on his knees on the edge of her bed and Phryne fucking (well, yes, since you asked, that is definitely the plan here) Fisher is reaching up to undo his tie and his waistcoat and they are absolutely, definitely doing this. He is going to see her naked in real life, up close and not just in a painting. And he’s gonna get to touch her.

Except, if that’s going to happen, he’ll probably have to undress her and he honestly doesn’t even know where to start. There are so many tiny buttons on this dress and his hands are so big, and it’s entirely possible she’ll be asleep before he’s finished.

He has an idea, a brilliant stroke of inspiration, and - feeling pretty damn clever - he leans down and kisses her again. Does a pretty thorough job of it, too, running one hand slowly up her body at the same time, and then, when she starts squirming and making noises that are really enthusiastic and not at all bad for his ego, he gets back up and starts unbuttoning his shirt, eyeing the buttons on her dress in a way he hopes is significant but not too desperate-looking.

Thankfully, because she’s very clever as well, she gets the hint, and with a speed that’s actually really fucking impressive she has the dress open and is sitting up to worm her way out of it. He wonders if this is something she has practiced or her fingers are just that nimble, but then her teeth are scraping along his pecs and those fingers are working the buttons of his trousers and she’s actually stroking him and oh, shit, he is in so much trouble, because he doesn’t want her to ever stop doing that and he doesn’t really care what it’ll take to get her to keep going. 

Except she’s nudging down his smalls with her other hand and he realises that part is simple enough that he could probably do the same to hers without looking like a fool and then somehow, after a bit of shifting from one leg to the other - that does involve her stopping what she’s doing to him, but he’s aware of the fact that it’s for a greater good, so he doesn’t complain - they’re both naked and he’s looming over her, his weight on his elbows and him trying to think of a delicate way to ask her about protection. Because he wants this to happen, and he wants this to happen Now, but that sensible part of his brain hasn’t shut itself off completely yet, and there are some consequences to what’s about to happen that he doesn’t really want to have to face nine months from now.

“Are you…” he begins, but then he doesn’t really know how to continue, so he tries a look towards her nightstand, because that seems like an obvious place for that type of device, but she’s too preoccupied with massaging his buttocks and trying to pull him closer to notice.

“Phryne,” he tries again, and this time she actually looks at him. “Are you… is this…?”

She reaches up to kiss him, her breasts brushing softly against his chest, and he wonders if this is something he really needs to care about at all or he should just assume she’s on top of things, because she usually is. (Except not right now, he’s on top right now. He smirks against her lips at the thought. But not in a misogynistic way, just in a funny way. Because Jack is a reasonably modern man who respects women in general and Miss Fisher in particular.)

He pulls up slightly, cursing himself - and his mother a little bit, because she’s the one who raised him this way - for being so damn stuck on doing the right thing always (well, nearly always). “Is this safe?” He feels like a fucking idiot asking the question, and the fact that she actually starts laughing doesn’t exactly help.

“Jack, I have been waiting for you to work up the nerve to do something like this for months; I’m prepared,” she tells him finally.

That reply is probably one Jack’s going to be pondering quite a lot in the future, thinking about all those times he sat in her parlour drinking whiskey and talking about work, or playing draughts and talking about how she needed to take things like the law and his sanity more seriously, and all the while she was sitting there all…

The hands on his arse pull down on him more firmly and he lets them, and then he’s inside her and there’s a short circuit in his brain as he tries to feel everything all at once, and all he’s left with is her. He’s inside her, and she’s inside him, and the world has never felt this small or this big, and he’s terrified because he’s having a really fucking amazing time, but what if she’s not? 

He leans down, putting some strain on his shoulders that he’s probably going to feel tomorrow, and kisses her, because past evidence would suggest that she likes it when he does that, and then he makes a real effort to slow down the movement of his hips, because he suspects that this going on for more than thirty seconds would probably also be something she’d enjoy.

Her hands travel lightly up his back, landing on his shoulders, her nails scraping down his shoulderblades, which is something else he’ll probably be feeling tomorrow, but right in this moment he doesn’t really mind, except it seems unfair that she gets to touch him and he’s using his arms to keep himself propped up so he won’t crush her. So he shifts, making another move that’s much smoother than he expected it to be, probably because she catches on really quickly, and flips them around so she’s on top.

She shifts so she’s sitting up, her knees on either side of his chest, and this is possibly the best fucking idea he ever had because this view is amazing. Phryne Fisher is riding him, stark-naked, her flesh against his and her breasts right there for him to look at and touch and… he reaches up, brushing against her nipples and just staring at her, dumbfounded, when she closes her eyes, a smile playing on her lips.

He feels a little bit like there should be something more meaningful going on right now, they should be doing this more slowly, he should be taking his time and savouring the moment or whatever, but the truth is everything just feels So Fucking Good he couldn’t if he tried, and basically if he doesn’t embarrass himself completely he’ll be happy, and if he actually manages to make her come as well he’ll be the happiest, smuggest detective inspector in all of Victoria. Possibly all of Australia.

She shifts slightly, changing the rhythm of her movements, and the whole ‘don’t embarrass yourself, Robinson’ thing suddenly gets a little bit more urgent, so he makes an effort to get over the fact that he’s totally allowed to touch breasts he has been trying his damnedest not to look at for the best part of a year (something he mainly managed because she kept flashing her thighs at him), and lets his hands travel down her side, one of them coming to rest on her hip while the other makes a detour along the taut muscles of her stomach before descending to where they’re joined. 

He watches her face closely, hoping with every part of his brain that’s still able to focus that he’ll be able to tell when his thumb finds the right spot, and apparently sometimes hoping pays off, because he didn’t even have to be looking at her, he can tell from the way she bucks, losing her rhythm for just a second, and then her eyes open and she looks at him and he’s more than a little happy he’s looking back at her, because her expression is so sultry and pleased, and he doesn’t remember her ever being anything other than attractive, but the way she looks right now, naked and sweaty and her hair and make-up a mess, is easily the most beautiful she has ever been. 

His thumb moves in a pattern that mimics hers, and he’s torn between the joy of watching her and the inclination to close his eyes and try to remember the rules of footy (scores are well beyond him by this point), but then he feels her whole body tense up, and closing his eyes is no longer an option when she throws her head back, her muscles clenching around him, her rhythm completely erratic now, and his name escaping her lips in a way he will never, ever want to forget as she comes, and he’s not actually sure if it’s the sound or the feeling that sends him over the edge.

His breath is still laboured and his thoughts are still a haze when she leans down and kisses him lazily, and all he can work up the energy for is one hand on her back, caressing her. Which is pretty damn pathetic, really, but still more than he thought he’d be able to do. Before he can work up the energy for more she’s lifting herself off of him, and that finally sends his other hand into action as he reaches for her.

She leans down, kissing him again, a grin that manages to somehow be both smug and satisfied on her face. “I’ll be right back,” she promises (at least it sounds like a promise, but he’d believe anything he told himself right now, really) and then she’s gone.

He feels cold and absurdly lonely (he’d roll his eyes at himself, but he doesn’t have the energy) but then - thank fuck - she actually does return and he realises she was in the lavatory and he should probably refrain from questioning that, so instead he just pulls her down on the bed to him.

“Do you know,” she says, her nails scraping over one of his nipples. “I think you should let criminals get away more often.”

He catches her hand and pulls it up to his lips, kissing her knuckles and then sucking her index finger into his mouth. Her breath hitches and he does that lopsided smug grin. “Then maybe you should stay out of my cases more often,” he suggests after releasing her hand.

“If I did,” she says, snuggling up to him in a way that catches him by surprise a little bit, so intimate and familiar somehow - she fits pretty perfectly in the crook of his shoulder, but he hadn’t really expected her to go for that sort of thing. “You would only solve half as many cases.”

He definitely wouldn’t. He’d just take longer to solve them and have less time left over to do paperwork. But he’d also have less paperwork to do, because she wouldn’t be there to do paperwork-requiring things, so it’d mostly add up in the end. He should probably argue that point but right at this moment, her body resting against his, letting a few criminals get away so he could get to do this again doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world, so instead he just kisses the top of her head and pulls her closer.

When her breathing has evened and he’s pretty sure she’s asleep he whispers into the night: “No, I wouldn’t.”

She doesn’t reply, but her teeth bite into his shoulder gently and he smiles.


End file.
